It's All The Same To Me
by Hedgehogs and Tea
Summary: Two-shot. Slash, J/S, Post-TRF. Complete, Part Two; 'Dreams'
1. Chapter 1

Mary had decided. That usually meant nothing John could say could change her mind.  
This was no different.  
_"I want you OUT. You're the same; you never really changed, never really got over him, did you? This is a lie, we're the lie. Not him, he wasn't a fake and you never stopped believing it. You're the fake, John Watson. You have no place in this house anymore."_

And then he had nowhere to go.  
Greg would take him in, but his career as a DI had been cut short. Ever forgiving, he knew in hindsight that Sherlock wasn't who the media said he was. The sheer amount of cases he'd solved, with the ice-cold logic carrying them all. Even the best serial killers slip up and Sherlock couldn't have held on for that long. Everybody had seen it, but Gregory hadn't been given his old position. He was left to work from the bottom up, seen as the widespread opinion was still that 'Sherlock is, was, and always shall be, a fraud!' and no solid evidence had turned out to the contrary, so it remained solid. To be frank, what saved Lestrade was his relationship with Mycroft. Intended to be purely platonic, a strong friendship had appeared while they fought the demons inside Sherlock's head, together. They forgave each other for the wrongs they had enforced directly before 'The Fall' namely, Mycroft selling his younger brother out, and Lestrade doubting Sherlock in his moment of need. John found himself resenting them both, for their wrongs against Sherlock, finding each other, neglecting him, but mostly for being happy.  
Although he wouldn't have accepted their help anyway, he would have been more willing to ask for their help now he actually needed it.

And then John hated them even more, because the one woman he'd found who could look past all the mental issues and beliefs in a 'dead' man, and still want him... Didn't want him anymore. Meanwhile, they're playing happy families and Lestrade's getting on okay with his new job and Mycroft's as cold and obnoxious as ever but they're _together_ and they're _happy_ and it's more than John can stand. All he wants is for Sherlock to stop pretending to be dead and come back. He knows he's being unreasonable, but it's taken too long, and he's tired. He's so very tired. Sherlock's away and he's doing what he loves, he's derailing the enemy, piece by piece. Meanwhile, John is... Sitting at home, trying not to mess up too badly. Well, that was a royal screw up. He knows that Sherlock's still alive, still out there. Someone's taking down the web that Moriarty left over, and it's got Sherlock written all over it. When Donovan said he'd make a good serial killer, she wasn't wrong. His method is logical and precise, leaving behind little to no evidence against him. No one else would be clever enough to do that, so it's not getting his hopes raised, it's having his hopes justified.

John sighed. He never stopped thinking about it. Just waiting for Sherlock to make a reappearance, so he can punch the man in his ridiculously sculpted cheekbone. John decided to spend the night in a hotel, tomorrow he could go flat hunting. Mary would never let him go back, only to get his things and then leave.

"_Mary... Remember when I told you about that sniper? Well, yeah. He's trying to kill me again. I say trying; I think it's just a warning. He misses by about an inch each time. Hah, maybe it's because Sherlock's still alive, do you think they've figured it out yet?"_

Maybe not the cleverest thing to say, John thought as he replayed it in his head. Looking back over the conversation he could clearly see she's annoyed, and hiding something.

"_Oh, so someone's trying to assassinate you again, because of your old boyfriend. Great! Do I have a choice in this? Is there any way that he can be stopped? Because, surprisingly, I don't like my partner being shot at."  
John stared at her witheringly.  
"Yeah, you can go and shoot him if you want. And Sherlock wasn't my boyfriend. He didn't do that kind of thing."  
The look Mary gave him would freeze boiling kittens, which was scarily close to what she felt like doing in that moment.  
"If you're quite done risking our lives...?"  
"Oh it's not you he wants, Mary, you're quite safe. He just wants to kill me. I think its Sebastian. Moran. Even when it's assassins, I only get the best."  
He shot Mary a wink, and glanced at the window. She just stared at him.  
"You're happy with getting yourself killed, aren't you?" John frowned.  
"Not happy with getting myself killed. Happy with getting rid of another of Moriarty's network."  
"...So, happy to get yourself killed."  
"It's a good cause." John grinned. It was the truth of the matter, he didn't care if he died, he'd go down with the sniper, no matter what it took. Mary stared at him.  
"Out." She whispered.  
"Pardon?" John began to get indignant, he was going to try to help, and this was the thanks he got?_

"_I want you OUT. You're the same; you never really changed, never really got over him, did you? This is a lie, we're the lie. Not him, he wasn't a fake and you never stopped believing it. You're the fake, John Watson. You have no place in this house anymore."_

John sighed. He really should feel a little more regret at the loss of his one-year girlfriend, but instead all he felt was a vague sense of release. Yes, he was upset that her natural sense of comfort wouldn't be there on a daily basis after the stress of working nearly full-time in the hospital, but he found himself thinking he could find it elsewhere. If he hadn't died before Sherlock returned, he'd find it in his old flatmate. It had been a week since Mary had kicked him out, and he'd found 221B to be uninhabited. He had saved enough to be able to pay the rent for a few months, and the job could sustain living there, as long as he kept it full-time. Or if Sherlock came back. That might not be happening for a while, though.

It had been two weeks since Mary kicked him out and the sniper was getting restless. There had been no more close calls, but John was being followed to most places he went. Every time he went out, there were constant flashes out the corner of his eye, of a man. He didn't get more than a glimpse, but he knew it was the same person. His best bet was that it was the sniper. Sherlock wasn't one for delicacies, he'd just burst in on John, and Mycroft would inform him before getting him followed, after the quite extraordinary helping of verbal abuse John had treated him to, after the first time he'd stopped John attempting to put a gun in his mouth. That had been a short while after the funeral, and it had been too much for John. It was worse than coming back from Afghanistan. At least when he came back from there, there was the prospect of a new life. After Sherlock, nothing could live up to what he had. That was when he realised he wanted the detective back. He wanted Sherlock in _every_ way. Surprisingly, it was Mycroft's dabbling that made him realise Sherlock couldn't be dead. Sherlock wouldn't give up that easily, and he didn't give John enough credit, for the brainpower he possessed. Even if Sherlock was a fake, he wouldn't go down without a fight, and jumping off a tall building was definitely not the way Sherlock would do it. Sherlock didn't see the point in the media's opinions and reactions, so why put on a show? If he wanted to kill himself, there were so many ways of getting John out the house and then downing a bottle of aspirin, or putting a bullet in his brain.

So John knew that Sherlock would be coming back. He knew that Sherlock would be dismantling Moriarty's web of crime, and maybe the man who was trailing John could be another element. He looked like Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man. There had been pictures supplied of him, and he fit the physique. John had a plan of action, to be put into place the next day. He fished out his phone and started working.

-m-M-m-

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. Two of them? That wasn't meant to happen... He had confirmed, the first man was Moran, but the second man he had no idea. He wasn't sure if Moran knew he was there, either. John flicked the safety off on his browning, flattened his back against the wall, in the shadows of the door he was hiding behind. Moran strode confidently into the room, and across to the window. As he walked, John pulled him into a headlock, and shoved the gun into his temple.  
"Who. Is. The. Other. Man?" John's voice was a hiss.  
"You're better than I gave you credit for, Doctor Watson." His voice was calm and didn't miss a beat. It didn't even waver. "To be honest, I thought the other man was you. I was going to draw you in here and then kill you before you'd stepped through the door."  
His face twisted into an ugly grin, and it sickened John to think how many other people he might have killed, cold-heartedly. Steeling his resolve, John spoke.  
"What a nice twist of fate."  
And then he put a bullet in Moran's brain.

There were footsteps on the stairs.

John spun, lifted his firing arm and spoke quietly. Flat, levelled and composed. "I wouldn't try anything, if I were you."

A small chuckle reverberated from behind the door. Recognising it, John nearly shot anyway.

"Is that so, John. I believe that is my target, on the floor with your bullet in his head." The voice trembled with amusement. John leaned back on his heels, flicked the safety on and slotted his gun back into the waistband of his jeans.  
"Stop talking, Sherlock, and help me get rid of the guy."

Their first act together, with Sherlock back, was to put a dead body into the trunk of Mycroft's car, where he'd get rid of it for them.

-m-M-m-

John slammed the door of 221B, and made a beeline for the kettle.  
Typical as it was, Sherlock had refused to do the sensible thing, and come into the flat, lest Mrs. Hudson find out about him. The kettle clicked off, and John filled the mug with boiling water, wondering whether it would get him a harassment charge if he poured a cup of scalding water on the head of a dead man. He stripped off his outer layer, and ended up leaning on the counter in his boxers and loose black shirt, phoning for Chinese food.

About half an hour later found him facing the sink, washing up his mug, having been unable to eat when the man he wanted to talk to was wandering the streets of London, barely even desiring to come back to the place he called home.  
A pair of warm arms wrapped around his waist, and a voice by his ear enquired;  
"Hello. Miss me?" John let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.  
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
"I'm hugging you...I thought even you would have been able to work that out." John rolled his eyes, and the warm arms withdrew.  
Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking, once again, like he belonged there.  
"You're not angry?"  
"Really, Sherlock. You're back now; it's all the same to me. Anyway, I've known ever since the first time someone from Moriarty's web disappeared. Who else would be doing that?"  
"Mycroft?" John snorted.  
"Yeah, because he's not too busy with Lestrade."  
Sherlock looked stunned and slightly nauseated, for a few seconds, before composing himself and changing the subject.  
"So how did you know about Moran?"  
John laughed, Sherlock really didn't pay him enough credit.  
"Well, he wasn't very discreet when he was following me."  
Sherlock shot him a degrading look.  
"What?"  
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  
"Don't make jokes about that, John. "  
John's eyes widened, and he saw his friend for the first time. The dark circles under his eyes, the exhausted slump to his shoulders, the slightly raised skin around a cut on his cheek. John knelt in front of him and ran his fingers over the cut, gently.  
"Sherlock when was the last time you slept?" Sherlock's brow furrowed, but his eyes didn't open.  
"Three days? Four?" John cupped his face, thumb skimming over the cheekbone instead of the cut, this time.  
"Sherlock, you need to sleep."  
"I was... busy." John smiled. He'd missed this brilliant, amazing, idiotic man.  
"You need to sleep." It was barely a whisper, and Sherlock's brow furrowed even more. John found himself leaning closer to the man, whose eyes remained firmly shut.  
"Need... to talk... with you..." Sherlock mumbled, his nose wrinkling. John tried, and failed, not to find it endearing.  
"You can talk with me tomorrow. You can use my bedroom, c'mon now," John leaned forward and pressed a small, chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. At this, his eyelids flickered open, and he looked vaguely panicked.  
"John...?"  
"I'll sleep on the sofa, tonight. We can get your room done tomorrow." John hauled Sherlock to his feet and began leading him up the stair to John's room. At the doorway, John removed his arm from Sherlock's shoulders, and started to push him towards the bed.  
"Sleep now, talk tomorrow."  
"John." John stopped pushing him, and the younger man placed a small kiss at the side of the shorter one's mouth, before stumbling towards John's bed and falling onto it.  
"Sleep well, Sherlock."

**A/N: Um if you want me to elaborate on this and write some fluff and maybe smut and explaining what in the heck happened and why, if you leave suggestions or just a general genre you want this to go into, I shall do! (:  
****I know I'm meant to be writing my other fic, but I had a complete block for that one. I know, I know, I'm awful! The next chapter of that one will be up soon!  
**

**Love, hugs, hegdehogs and tea.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

_John stood too close to him, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. Every so often he'd flick his eyes down, and the scrutiny would be delivered to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock had asked him what he was doing in a whisper a few times, each time receiving nothing but a pointed glare and a hush. He bit his lip, and tried to be quiet. Talking would break the mood. The lip biting is what did it, though. John let out a small whisper of breath, from anyone else it would be called a whimper, and swayed dangerously close to Sherlock's lips. He murmured something indistinguishable, that contained the words 'gorgeous' and 'intoxicating'. Sherlock stared with heavy lidded eyes at the man who paid him such close attention, drunk off his scent. He'd done this before, but no one had had such an effect on him. John leaned forward and covered Sherlock's lips with his own. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath, and slid his arm around John's waist. John let out another small noise and pulled himself closer. Sherlock let himself be laid down on his back, in the middle of the bed, as John straddled him. The kiss had broken, and Sherlock was almost disappointed. It had been unbearable chast__é__ up to this point. Sherlock reached up, and gained a hold on John's neck, pulling him down and crushing the man's lips against his own in a search for the promise that had presented itself through the sweet gesture minutes ago. His tongue gently probed at John's closed lips, and they parted gently, allowing Sherlock entry to John's mouth. It stayed sweet, just a slip of tongues, before John pushed Sherlock against the mattress again, and Sherlock's hips bucked up. John now dominated the kiss, moving it at a faster pace, heated and full of raw passion. Both were hard and they were rutting against each other like teenagers._

A door slammed downstairs and Sherlock shot to vertical, out of bed in an instant.  
For a second he thought it had happened again, he was in a deserted house in a foreign country, completely unaware of his surroundings, and _having erotic dreams about his ex-flatmate_.  
A moment of all-consuming panic clutched at him, before he realised he was in John's room, in John's clothes, jumping out of John's bed. His eyebrows dipped as he repressed the urge to smell them and bask for a few minutes. He might not get this chance again. Then he remembered what he was dreaming about and groaned. He looked down and sure enough-yep he was hard. The door slamming turned out to be John, who was now climbing the stairs, the heavy beat of his feet growing ever nearer. Sherlock sighed and pushed himself into the bed, pulling the duvet up to mask the evidence of his past dwellings. It was for this reason he hated sleeping-the amount of time it took for his brain to speed up again, after.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Hm?" John paused in the doorway, looking at Sherlock who currently sat, cocooned in John's duvet, on the edge of the bed. He stared for a few seconds before nodding and sighing simultaneously, before turning to head back down the stairs.  
"Tea in a few!" He yelled up to Sherlock, who sighed and collapsed against the bed, willing his erection to go away. He lay there for a few minutes, until he was sure it was safe to brave human contact.  
A few minutes later found them sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, free of experiments, due to the long interval since Sherlock last had a chance to put make a distinct impression that he was anywhere in the house, with either organised chaotic mess, or experiments. Sherlock circled the rim of his mug, staring into the creamy beige liquid and estimating when the barrage of questions would begin. As predicted, John drew in a breath, and Sherlock smirked.  
John let it out in a huff and Sherlock glanced up.  
The expression on John's face was oddly close to... pouting?  
"Are you...?"  
"No." John flicked his head to the side, to stare away from Sherlock and licked his lower lip.  
Sherlock's eyes widened.  
"Did you just...?"  
"NO!" John snapped his head back to glare at Sherlock, who was making a valiant effort not to chuckle. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, and leaned forward. When he spoke it was in an undertone;  
"When you act like this... People might talk..."  
John mirrored his actions, widening his eyes and leaning forwards so their forearms touched over the table.  
"People do little else." Now it was Sherlock's turn to pout.  
"That's my line."  
John's lips quirked up and to the side, and the expression was so endearing, Sherlock had to lean forwards so their lips were a whisper apart.  
"Three years, John. Don't keep me waiting."  
John's eyes met his, and then slid closed. Their lips touched, but it was barely there. Sherlock was longing for something he had felt in his dream, he could feel it, just out of reach and true to his predictions, John was pulling back before Sherlock had a chance to advance things.  
"Not now, Sherlock." Sherlock grinned.  
"Later?" The briefest hint of a wink crossed his face, and John was almost chortling again.  
"Definitely." The smile on the taller man's face grew wider.

They talked for hours, getting up to date on the other's activities during the three years apart.  
John told Sherlock about Mary, and their quick flair. He spoke of waiting, indefinitely. The suspense, the pain of never knowing when Sherlock would return. At this Sherlock pressed his lips against John's again. He talked about Lestrade and Mycroft, how they found each other, and how Lestrade was ruined. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he told the last factor of the game Moriarty played. John knew the details, Mycroft had explained before John couldn't stand to look him in the face-or in his general direction any more.  
Before Moriarty put a gun in his mouth, he explained the entire thing, and Sherlock had recorded it with the camera he found in the apartment, proving he was innocent. As soon as he could get the file off the laptop, both his and Lestrade's names could be restored in the view of the public and Lestrade's superiors. Their names had been cleaned a year and a half ago.  
Sherlock told John about surviving the fall, and Molly, about the complicated procedures surrounding it. He recounted picking apart the web, and the array of deeds he had to do. He explained why he was so unprepared with Moran. During the previous day he had taken out another operative, and couldn't get a chance to sleep before Moran would have killed John. He'd planned to do a pure surprise attack, and revealed he knew he probably wouldn't have got out alive. He'd wanted to get rid of the man before he could get a chance to find John. Sherlock's gaze relocated to the table as he neared the end.  
He spoke the last sentence and his gaze fixed upon John's.

"Seeing you there... It was the best feeling I've had in three years. Even though you were covered in another man's blood."

John just stared. He grabbed the front of the sheet Sherlock was wearing and hauled his torso onto the table, leaning onto it and pressing his lips deftly against Sherlock's. This kiss was not like the others. The other kisses were soft and reassuring, a promise that _'I'm here, I'm not leaving again. I'm not going anywhere any time soon.' _This kiss was frantic, full of the pain and hurt and helplessness and loss that each had felt over the years apart, healing the scars and putting the other's mind back together. It was a promise, a deal, a leap. It was the knowledge that neither wanted anything more than they had, in that room, on the kitchen table. John pulled away, and dragged Sherlock around the table towards him.  
"You. Idiot." He punctuated each word with a nip at Sherlock's bottom lip.  
"Never. Do. That. To. Me. Again." He kept biting, fastening his teeth on the lobe of Sherlock's ear, before moving down to his neck and scraping his teeth over the pulse point. Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was the 'leaving him alone for three years' or the 'nearly get yourself killed when you're so close to coming home', but right now, he didn't care. The sensations John were evoking in him were so close to his dream, that he was hard before John had manhandled him around the table. All his past dreams flashed behind his eyes, and he shivered violently, and resorted to gently pulling away from John, before he completely lost control.  
"Not now, we have to go and tell my brother the good news." His pupils were blown wide, and his hair looked beautifully dishevelled. John just grinned.

**A/N: And that's my first fic finished... I might be writing an alternative ending to this hmmm... Only if enough of you want it(;  
Reviews are the fuel in my engine!**


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